Rodin had closed his eyes, conquered by the first agony of pain.  He now opened them, and looked at the doctor as if ashamed of such weakness.  And yet on the sides of his chest were four large, bleeding wounds—­so violent had been the first singe.  As he again extended himself on the bed of torture, Rodin made a sign that he wished to write.  The doctor gave him the pen, and he wrote as follows, by way of memorandum; “It is better not to lose any time.  Inform Baron Tripeaud of the warrant issued against Leonard, so that he may be on his guard.”

Having written this note, the Jesuit gave it to Dr. Baleinier, to hand it to Father d’Aigrigny, who was as much amazed as the doctor and the cardinal, at such extraordinary presence of mind in the midst of such horrible pain.  Rodin, with his eyes fixed on the reverend father, seemed to wait with impatience for him to leave the room to execute his orders.  Guessing the thought of Rodin, the doctor whispered Father d’Aigrigny, who went out.

“Come, reverend father,” said the doctor, “we must begin again.  This time do not move.”

Rodin did not answer, but clasped his hands over his head, closed his eyes, and presented his chest.  It was a strange, lugubrious, almost fantastic spectacle.  The three priests, in their long black gowns, leaned over this body, which almost resembled a corpse, and blowing through their tubes into the chest of the patient, seemed as if pumping up his blood by some magic charm.  A sickening odor of burnt flesh began to spread through the silent chamber, and each assistant heard a slight crackling beneath the smoking trivet; it was the skin of Rodin giving way to the action of fire, and splitting open in four different parts of his chest.  The sweat poured from his livid face, which it made to shine; a few locks of his gray hair stood up stiff and moist from his temples.  Sometimes the spasms were so violent, that the veins swelled on his stiffened arms, and were stretched like cords ready to break.

Enduring this frightful torture with as much intrepid resignation as the savage whose glory consists in despising pain, Rodin gathered his strength and courage from the hope—­we had almost said the certainty—­of life.  Such was the make of this dauntless character, such the energy of this powerful mind, that, in the midst of indescribable torments, his one fixed idea never left him.  During the rare intervals of suffering—­for pain is equal even at this degree of intensity—­Rodin still thought of the Rennepont inheritance, and calculated his chances, and combined his measures, feeling that he had not a minute to lose.  Dr. Baleinier watched him with extreme attention, waiting for the effects of the reaction of pain upon the patient, who seemed already to breathe with less difficulty.

Suddenly Rodin placed his hand on his forehead, as if struck with some new idea, and turning his head towards Dr. Baleinier, made a sign to him to suspend the operation.